


A Night at the Opera

by born_awkward2



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Bad Boy Ben Solo, Badass Rey (Star Wars), Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben Solo really needs that hug, Christmas at Alderaan, F/M, HEA, Jealous Ben Solo, Lovers To Enemies, Miss Connix is ascendant, Period Typical Attitudes, Rake Ben Solo, Rated M for Mature Themes, Redeemed Ben Solo, Regency Romp, Reylo - Freeform, Snoke Being a Dick (Star Wars), The Duel, The errant wife, annulment of a marriage, depiction of feelings of grief and abandonment, heiress Rey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29841240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/born_awkward2/pseuds/born_awkward2
Summary: Prince Benjamin marries eighteen year old heiress Rey Palpatine by proxy and promptly leaves England for the continent, returning three years later after hearing his wife is going to have the marriage dissolved due to non-consummation. Aware also that his business manager, Snoke, has almost complete control over his fortune.Visiting the opera he claps eyes on the most exquisite woman he has ever seen. He asks his friend Armitage Hux who she is.Hux replies; ‘Your wife’ ...
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico, Leia Organa/Han Solo, Rey/Ben Solo
Comments: 22
Kudos: 82





	1. Who is she?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ayearandaday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayearandaday/gifts).



> I took a wee break from AO3 and orphaned my previous works. This, however, was an unfinished gift for Ayearandaday. I’ve almost finished chapter 2 and will be posting that shortly.

I tell you I shan’t marry the chit!”

James Snoke sighed, thinking longingly of being without the necessity of managing the six foot three man-child currently pouting and scowling before him in order to achieve his goals.

“I tell you again, you must. Securing her will secure the Palpatine lands, and then not even your mother will be able to deny you your Amidala-Skywalker inheritance upon your marriage, as stipulated in your grandparents’ Will.”

The scowl on his charge’s face deepened, the pout still very evident, denoting extreme dissatisfaction with the word _must_. Well, small mercies, at least he’d grown out of throwing himself on the ground and drumming his heels on the floor in a temper tantrum.

He watched as his employer strode up and down the room, aiming kicks borne of petulance at various items of furniture, his dogs cowering under the clawed legs of a china cabinet. Hopefully their presence would discourage Prince Benjamin from overturning it for the gratification of hearing its contents all smash to smithereens.

“You say I won’t have to live with her?” He had temporarily halted his perambulation, sending a glowering look of inquiry Snoke’s way.

“Yes,” his man of business repeated patiently. “Lord Palpatine wishes to keep his granddaughter by his side a little longer.”

The prince’s perambulation had recommenced. It stopped again.

“How old is she? Eighteen, you say?”

“Yes, sir.” Snoke allowed himself a little jab at humour, “Eighteen and never been kissed.” He gave a little titter, the prince’s frown reappeared, doubling in ferocity.

“Ugh, the worst kind of female. You know that’s not what I like, Snoke.”

Snoke bowed in mock deference, “I do, sir, but it can’t be helped.” Inspiration struck him, “Unless we look abroad for a suitable mate from one of the European royal houses?”

“Ugh, even worse, my mother likes to dabble in politics, you know that, Snoke. I’d have her careering all over Europe interfering and dragging me into it. No.” He paused, biting his bottom lip. “Very well, then, but find someone else do the deed, I’m off to Italy on the Falcon as soon as I can get down to Southampton Water. Do the necessary and let me know when it’s all done.”

With that he swung out of the room and Snoke heard him setting up a shout for his valet and head groom, his spaniels pattering after him. Drat the boy, if he wasn’t absolutely essential to his plans he’d arrange for a fatal accident for him whilst on the high seas.

No, focus, he chided himself for his inattention. Sheev Palpatine couldn’t live forever, he’d get the boy to father a son and heir on the chit and then arrange for a nasty - fatal - accident for him, leaving himself as guardian and mentor of the young widow and all she possessed. Why, he might even marry her himself!

He allowed himself a self-satisfied cackle of mirth. Really, the boy ought to pay more attention to what he was signing. Palpatine of course was not such a pushover, but he would contrive. Yes, yes, he would contrive.

He left the room humming his favourite air.

Three Years Later

Prince Benjamin was newly returned from his continental journeying, where he had sampled to the full the delights to be found in the arms of ballerinas, opera singers and exquisite courtesans. Currently standing in a box at the opera, he was engaged in scowling at the glittering throng gathering beneath him and in the boxes opposite.

Beside him lounged his friend Armitage Hux, sent by Snoke to recall him from his protracted sojourn to partake in the London Season. He was not best pleased with such imperiousness, but apparently his wife, whom he’d never seen, was threatening to have the marriage dissolved, citing non-consummation. Had the chit no sense of decorum?

Palpatine had passed recently and had proven wilier than Snoke had anticipated, never handing over a shilling of her dowry or relinquishing a foot of her land; finally putting the chit’s affairs in trust until she was thirty. Amongst the trustees was his mother and Lord Lando Calrissian, powerful sworn enemies of Snoke, (as were all the trustees), considering him both a parvenu and an upstart.

Hux had confided all this to him, against Snoke’s express orders, he being a lover of mischief. Apparently, he now wanted the marriage to end and had lined up another prospective bride for his patron, not so well protected.

For some time now Ben had grown in awareness of Snoke’s power over him, and the self-inflicted thraldom he now must endure after giving Snoke such tools as Enduring Power of Attorney. He cursed himself for a fool. The friends he had made in Italy and France had all warned him of the peril he was in should his parents pass while such legal powers he had made over were in place.

All Europe seemed to know of his foolishness; that his fortune could be spirited away under his very nose and all that would be left would be empty titles and lands mortgaged to the hilt. He must wrest power back, but it would take time. Hopefully, the greater part could be saved.

Yes, Snoke’s summons served a dual purpose, giving him a reason to return without inciting too much suspicion and beginning the process of clawing back his inheritance.

As he mulled over these depressing thoughts, jaw working furiously, Hux lounging beside him, the door to the box opposite opened and a party began to enter. To his dismay he saw his mother and father, accompanied by Poe Dameron. He scoffed at the sight of Dameron, still clinging to his mother’s petticoats, clearly.

A naval officer brought up the rear, bicorne hat tucked under one arm with a lady clinging to the other - and what a lady, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He stared at her, dumbstruck. Her glossy brunette hair was piled high on her head, with diamonds threaded through it. She wore an empire line dress of pale green silk with a gauze overskirt, the bodice embroidered and embellished with bugles that caught the light, so that she looked to be of the fairy sort. Indeed, if she suddenly unfolded iridescent wings he would not have been surprised.

She looked across at him. He saw her blush at sight of his intense staring, leaning forward to ask something of his mother. His princess mother looked up sharply and then across at him, putting up her fan and leaning back to whisper something to the goddess in green.

He saw his lady’s eyes widen and at once she unfurled her own fan and hid her face behind it, peeping at him over the top before lowering her eyes demurely.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he murmured, “shield that lovely face from all eyes but mine.”

“Eh, what?” Hux, seated beside him asked, raising his eyes from contemplation of the programme.

“Hux, tell me, who is that lady opposite.”

Hux peered across the auditorium. “Really, Solo, do you not recognise your own mother? Have your wits gone begging or are you drunk?”

He ignored the provocation in Hux’s tone of voice; the ginger loved to be the superior of everyone he met. “No, you fool, I mean the lady in the green dress.”

Hux looked again. The lady still had her fan in front of her face, stealing surreptitious glances at him over it. Evidently, though, this was no bar to Hux. He began to laugh, making such a show attention began to be paid to them by other opera goers. Unwanted attention.

“Egad, Solo, what a fellow you are. A veritable monster. Why, man, that’s your wife!” He went off into another peal of laughter.

Opposite, the lady in green lowered her fan and smiled graciously at him, slightly inclining her head.

Aurélie Palpatine was a beauty, and the wife he had married by proxy and neglected these past three years, flaunting his mistresses before the eyes of the world. It should have shaken him to the core, robbed him of all hope, but his blood was also that of Han Solo. He recalled a saying of his father, often quoted, he murmured it now to himself.

“Never tell me the odds.”


	2. My wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bon mots = witty remarks
> 
> aux anges = blissfully happy (literally; with the angels. exalted).

He kept his eyes as best he may upon the players on the stage, and away from the object of his desire. He meant to conceal from her the depth of his infatuation, determined that _she_ should be the petitioner for _his_ favour.

He meant too to hide his jealousy over the male companions who hung so freely over the back of her chair, whispering such confidences and imparting such _bon mots_ as to make her lips curve in a dazzling smile or to peep provocatively over her unfurled fan.

Such vying for her notice and favour was only right and proper, a tribute to her beauty. For such beauty as she possessed must receive of daily veneration.

Also, by association, it brought credit to him; he being able to command the most glowing and exquisite of mistresses - the most glowing and exquisite wife.

However, as his wife, as a princess of Naboo by marriage, it was necessary to keep a proper distance. It would not do for _inferior persons_ , or indeed any person, to feel as though they could impose upon her and thereby encroach upon his rights.

That his mother was responsible for the louche company placed about his wife he had no doubt, for Dameron was part of the company - congenitally unable to keep his appointed position and place, setting himself up to charm and captivate at whatever level of company he found himself.

He was pleased at his self-control, giving no hint to the beauty in the box opposite of her most profound effect upon him. Why, barely had their eyes met during the whole of the first act until he leisurely stood up and made his way to his mother’s box, his long legs carrying him swifter than anticipated. He hadn’t meant to appear so eager to obtain her company, but the anticipated impediment of some acquaintance hailing him and minutes together wasted exchanging pleasantries and polite inanities did not occur.

Hardly, then, had his mother’s party begun to look around, to gather up necessary impedimenta in anticipation of the imminent arrival of champagne and canapés, than he arrived. After a sharp rap at the box’s door he entered without further ado, seeing his wife turn in her chair, a faint blush staining her cheeks when she saw who had come.

Immediately his mother hailed him and he must pay her his courtesy, bowing over her hand and kissing it, giving a civil nod to his father in passing, ignoring his mother’s wondering aloud as to how long since she last saw her _only child_? As this was to be counted in years rather than weeks or even months, he knew himself to be on shaky ground and wisely ignored her lamentation and therefore the provocation.

He turned back to his wife, ignoring all other persons present, his duty having been done. She was now standing, Poe Dameron stationed protectively (possessively) by her side.

Now this was a provocation he was prepared to embrace, being lethal with both sword and pistol, and undoubtably having the law of the land on his side. For the moment, however, he could pretend Dameron did not exist.

“My lady,” he bowed his head, clicking together the heels of his black evening pumps - European manners not being as casual as the English and, therefore, more to his taste.

To his delight, she inclined her head graciously, acknowledging his salute.

“I wonder,” he continued, “could I persuade you to take a turn with me, it being tedious to sit so long without exercise?”

Before she could speak, before she could even formulate a yea or nay, Dameron had put hands on her: a constraining hand upon her arm, uttering a low toned, “Rey.”

Fortunately for Dameron the scoundrel was wearing gloves and the bare flesh of his hand did not touch Rey’s arm, naked above her elbow betwixt the capped sleeve of her gown and her evening glove, so that he could not justify strangling him on the spot. He did, however, take an intimidating step forward uttering a warning growl of his own, his mother’s voice behind him simultaneously uttering a restraining, “Ben!”

Of course! Of course she would allow her favourite to lay hands upon his wife. What other liberties had she allowed Dameron? He had come to claim what was his not a moment too soon.

His wife now showed her quality, her worthiness of him, for she fetched such a look at Dameron that must freeze the marrow in his bones, and uttered words in so arctic a tone that Dameron immediately released her and looked at once both shame-faced and confused.

“Release me at once, sir, and do not presume upon our friendship as permission to _maul_ me!”

She turned, eyes sparking with an ire that matched the fire of the emerald she wore nestled against her breastbone, which was attached to three stands of lustrous pearls coiled around her neck.

“My lord, it would give me great pleasure to take a turn with you, _safe_ within the benign precincts of this hallowed hall.”

The last was said pointedly, sarcastically, she not breaking eye contact with her husbandly owner. He found himself well satisfied with her conduct. If only his mother would abandon _her_ egalitarian manners in imitation!

From behind him and to the side came another voice, a note of apprehensive inquiry colouring it, “Rey?” Ah, the sea-faring gentleman.

To this person she was softer, kinder. “It’s alright, Finn, I know what I’m doing. On the arm of His Highness I’m in no danger of being importuned.”

She had turned her eyes back to her husband, who bowed again, signalling both the truth of her words and his honour and pleasure that her manners were so in keeping with his own sentiments.

There was no further delay. She waited only to catch up a long stole of dark red silk from the back of her chair, embroidered each end in gold thread in the pattern known as paisley, which gave away its provenance as being from India.

This she handed to her solicitous spouse, who knowledgeably and tenderly placed it about her shoulders having had the benefit of long practice, for acquisition of such luxuries as this was the object of lady and courtesan alike.

She slipped her arm through his and they walked out together, she with head held high in a most queenly manner, his head bent solicitously toward her the better to hear her commands.

As they passed through the doorway and into the passageway beyond, he idly noted that Hux had entered the box in his wake and was stood rigidly to one side of it, fists clenched and looking paler than usual if that were possible. 

Casting an indifferent eye toward where Hux’s eyes were fixed, he noted for the first time a tiny figure previously hidden by the bulk of the sea-faring gentleman, with glossy black curls and dressed in a white and silver spangled gown. She looked conscious under Hux’s scrutiny, blushing as pink as Hux was pale.

He had no time for speculation, however, not when the bright face of the woman on his arm was turned to his, her eyes as clear and glinting as the diamonds she wore in her hair.

They were unimpeded in their progress, the sound of laughter and chatter coming from within the boxes, no doubt awaiting the delivery of refreshments, the gentlemen not yet able to make their escape and find refuge in the smoking room to enjoy a cigarillo.

Their steps matched as he had reduced the length of his and she had increased the length of hers, champagne coloured silk slippers peeping from under her gown as they walked on arm in arm, secured on her feet with broad ribbons crossed and tied around her ankles which, he noticed, were shapely.

He knew then both the thrill of possession and the regret of not claiming her earlier - thus ought he to have walked her to church three years ago.

He gained their destination unmolested, a narrow red leather panel set into a wall, without a handle but proving to be spring loaded as he pressed a hand against it. It opened onto a narrow passageway.

The contrast between the public area and the backstage workings could not be more marked. Gone was the plush red carpet they had trodden down so confidently, replaced by garish red speckled oil cloth. Gone was pristine white painted panelling tastefully picked out with gold leaf. Instead, dingy cream distemper covered the walls and ceiling. Someone, too, had had the happy notion of painting the skirting boards red. The whole was lit by stubs of wax candles jammed into tarnished sconces of white metal in an attempt to better reflect the light.

The atmosphere here was functional, utilitarian - and disreputable. Ben had never noticed its tawdriness before, this trysting place shown him by his first inamorata, a dancer in the chorus as pretty as she had been voracious for his wealth. Uncle Lando had bought her off, teenage Ben being so foolish as to put the yearnings of his heart and body to paper at least twice a day. Uncle Lando had then given him a masterclass in how to manage his love affairs going forward. He truly loved his debonair adopted uncle.

What had seemed so straightforward a mere minute ago was now causing him to flounder. How did he proceed, having brought his wife here, certain of her virginity, to the scene of former lustful slippery couplings?

He was aware of her wide eyed gaze upon him, waiting on him patiently, and found he had threaded both her hands in his, holding them against his breast, thumbs pressed below her fingertips, his pinky fingers laying across her wrists. For want of anything better to do, he lowered his head and kissed these, the soft kid of her evening gloves brushing against his lips as would a soft caress.

This chastest of salutes seemed to have a most profound effect upon her, for her eyelashes fluttered and before he knew what she was about she had pressed herself against him and risen up on tiptoes to press her lips against his. His inertia dissolved in an instant as the soft, sweet pressure of her lips stimulated muscle memory and he encompassed her with his arms.

He could not merely continue to press his lips chastely against hers, for his nature meant he must wholly possess her, ruin her for the kisses of other men, though she would never belong to another. No, not while he yet lived. He must bite and suck and nibble, therefore, coax her lips to part and admit him so that she must crave his kisses and pursue the bestowing of them at every opportunity, only then could he be satisfied that he truly possessed her.

She was pliant in his embrace, unprotesting under the ardency of his kisses, but he knew by some instinct or other means when he needed to break off from the assault upon her lips and raise his head to look down upon her in triumph. Her eyes were closed, the lashes fluttering as if she were in a deep sleep, and then her lids slowly lifted and he looked into eyes rendered amber in the candlelight. She took his breath away.

“Undo me, husband, or else my hand is blind,” she spoke in a low, husky voice, and he diverted his gaze from her face to the gloved hand she was mutely proffering up, wrist turned toward him. Her meaning was plain, she needed him to unfasten the two buttons visible there - unfastening them would allow her glove to be drawn off.

It may be thought with fingers so broad and thick as his it was a task beyond him. He had, however, in lieu of a lady’s maid, many times assisted in the undressing and dressing of women.

He drew off his own gloves, fastened at each wrist with a single pearl button. These his wife helpfully took from him, holding them in her left hand and presenting once again her right wrist.

He freed her, and the attention of them both became fixated on the pulling off of her glove, she shuddering slightly as he clasped her arm above the elbow to gently tease her fingers from their soft cocoon, feeling for the first time his touch upon her bare skin.

She now being unsheathed, he closed his eyes at the first touch of her cool fingers upon his face, feeling her caress the soft skin of his cheek with gentle pressure. It was now his turn to shudder, a thrill running through him at her touch. This gentle pressure then moved to his lips, tracing their outline and fullness, and he scented the perfume anointing the pulse point on her wrist. French, he was guessing, or he had been previously deceived and cheated out of his golden guineas all this while.

Those delicate fingers of hers were now travelling up the ridge of his nose, gliding across his forehead as he stood with head bent to better facilitate her exploration. Now she had breached his hair, those small exploring fingertips of hers gently scraping his scalp, ruining his carefully coiffured locks. He opened his eyes and gathered her up in his arms, it being otherwise too long a time to go without kissing her.

Yes, as he had anticipated, those fingers of hers now buried themselves amidst his curls and pulled them in a way which gave him great satisfaction and further fuelled his desire for her if she did but know it.

For sometime he’d had an awareness of the soft thud of footfall from the panel behind them, and the more raucous sounds coming from the backstage end of the passageway. It was time to settle with her before they were discovered and her name made a scandal of. He broke his kiss, peering down at her, her face made wanton through his ministrations.

“Come with me, sweetheart. I keep a suite at the Pulteney. Come with me now and be private.”

Did her eyes just narrow in suspicion? Was there ire in their amber depths?

He reassured her with softly spoken words, “We _are_ married.”

She looked at him a long moment, as if calculating the risk and reward of such a venture, and he remembered that Sheev Palpatine came from fairly humble beginnings, at least compared with himself, but then so did most people. He did not, therefore, dwell overlong on the inequalities of their breeding; the prize to be gained far outweighed any deficiency of blood to be found in her.

It seemed her mind was made up, for she released him from anxious care, signalling with a brief nod her agreement, and he was instantly _aux anges_ , a rare smile breaking out across his features, kissing that naked hand now clasped in his and promising, “You won’t regret it sweetheart. Just wait and see.”

From down the passageway came the sound of the five minute call, which became an unacknowledged signal to put themselves to rights and exit into the more luxurious surroundings of the theatre - he listening carefully before releasing the panel and stepping out, holding her hand as though leading her to the dance.

There was more activity now, the doors of the boxes open as dear friend and acquaintance alike visited. As they made progress the both of them were hailed, returning only the briefest acknowledgement civility allowed, determined upon their course.

“Wait for me downstairs,” she murmured to him, “it will go easier without you and I will meet you there shortly.”

This did not sit well with him and he would have made demur. However, there was a such a determined look about her, her eyes green and bronze in this light, he acquiesced and received the sweetest of smiles from her. She looked content and confident and he preened a little, awarding himself no little praise for being the cause of her contentment.

Of course, his pacific mood could not last, not when he kissed her hand before the open door of his mother’s box and read condemnation or dislike in the eyes of most of the persons therein. He would have remained by her side then, scandal be blowed, but once again her will was transmitted through her lovely eyes and by the unmistakable pressure she applied to his fingers.

“My lady,” he again bowed low over her hand in quite the grand manner, clicking his heels and bestowing his kiss, before giving an all encompassing nod to those persons who deserved to receive it and departed.

Never had the minutes ticked by so slowly. Never had inactivity weighed upon him so heavily as he waited in the foyer while his wife, unsupported, loosened herself from the toils of her mother-in-law and near acquaintance.

What arguments would they make to keep her, he fretted? What seeds of doubt would they sow to make her falter in her resolve? He feared not the lies they may tell, but the truths. “A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent,” he recalled a wise saying of Nurse, a person most profoundly dedicated to his good health and welfare.

Just when he thought he could bear it no longer and must rush to her side and carry her off, she appeared at the top of the wide staircase flushed of face and with two bright spots of colour high upon her cheekbones. Clearly she had faced opposition.

As she descended the broad, shallow steps, he noticed the gauze of her gown was crumpled where she had been crushed against him. If his mother and Dameron had noticed that, then he knew on what basis their objections would be.

They were in error, this was his wife, the half of him missing all these years, who would complete him. Her love could not be bought but must be won, by him. He had determined that many years ago when he had first dreamed of her, her face not revealed to him until just now. If she was not already, she would become his equal in all things, save where he must abase himself in order to worship her the better. Of this too he was determined.

He beckoned to the valet who had helped him on with his greatcoat and handed him his silk hat and cane, to go fetch the coat check maid to assist his wife, treading up the carpeted stairs toward her without waiting to see if his imperative had been obeyed.

He reached her in two strides, taking the stairs three at a time, clasping the hand that rested on the brass bannister to offer comfort and security. Her eyes flew to his, the stormy expression in them receding as she read the sympathy in his - he had no illusions about how battered and conflicted her heart must now be.

Her smile came then, not as bright as before, a little tremulous. Nevertheless, the sight of it reassured his own bruised heart, filled with all kinds of regret as it now was. If only he could turn back time.

He took his place by her side, holding her hand high, her fan and silver mesh evening purse dangling from her wrist, and guided her down the few remaining stairs. The maid awaited them and he tenderly handed his wife into her care, sending the hovering valet hurrying to procure a hackney carriage to convey them to the Pulteney.

Before the valet had returned, his wife emerged clad in a black satin evening cloak, the hood of which had a broad ivory silk border. Her hands peeped through two slits at the front and he took the trouble to make sure it was well fastened for sour London air awaited them outside. He resolved to buy her furs as soon as he may.

He took the trouble too to draw her hood a little farther forward to further ensure her anonymity then he again took her hand, leading her as a bride through the theatre doors and out toward their future.

Had either of them looked behind, to the top of the staircase, they would have seen his mother standing there, a troubled look in her eyes, tapping her fan worriedly against her chin.


	3. The Season of Goodwill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Ayearandaday, I know you love ‘Connie’, so I’ve worked her into this mad tale. ❤️
> 
> Cook is quoting Ecclesiastes 10:7
> 
> Tweeny = literally the inbe _tween_ maid, working both upstairs and downstairs with no fixed position in the household.

The great house at Alderaan stood polished and garnished awaiting the arrival of its mistress to celebrate Christmastide. The work had been taxing but the household had welcomed it for there was comfort in ritual, and the last months of this year had been turbulent even by Skywalker standards. Principally the conduct of the Skywalker heir.

To very public scandal the prince had fought a duel with Mr. Poe Dameron - whisper it; it was thought over possession of the prince’s wife. Or rather former wife they should say, for that lady had obtained an annulment shortly before Prince Benjamin returned to England from abroad in order, they had it on good authority, to protect her fortune.

Fortunately for Mr. Dameron, a stiff cross breeze was blowing and the bullet meant for his heart had lodged itself instead in his shoulder, to the general relief of all. Foremost Mr. Dameron, of course, and then the princess, who would have had to quickly smuggle her son out of the country otherwise, duelling being against the law.

What charges there were that could be applied, the princess, by means known only to herself, had gotten these dropped and sent her son, her only child, to Alderaan until the scandal subsided and some other scandal took its place. Which, given the hedonistic nature of English aristocracy, didn’t take long.

Alas, the prince, so sequestered, proceeded to indulge himself in a manner sure to lead to him breaking his neck on the hunting field. Had it not been for the prince’s father, Mr. Han Solo, who knew where it would all have ended? Mr. Solo arrived not a moment too soon, bringing with him Mr. Chewbacca, his business partner.

Mr. Chewbacca, taller, broader and stronger than the prince, easily overpowered him, and the two gentlemen, concerned father and worried adopted uncle, bundled the prince into a carriage and took him off for a short voyage involving rough seas and hard physical labour. The two gentlemen were owners of a fleet of clipper ships, very sleek, very fast, dedicated to the service of the merchant marine.

It was noted, while the prince was resident, when he wasn’t trying to break his neck on the hunting field, he tended toward melancholy, often drawing from his pocket a piece of paper, crumpled and much folded, which he would peruse with an expression of great sadness.

He read and reread this missive constantly, whether seated before the library fire, or wandering the grounds of Alderaan with his spaniels at his heels, or drinking his port at the end of his dinner. The servants itched to know what it contained, but it never left his person, it being supposed he slept with it under his pillow.

Certainly his valet could have enlightened them, if he were not so disobliging, but Cyril would not, he having been trained by the late Lord Skywalker’s own valet and therefore knowing what he owed his employer. The late Mr. Artoo, a Frenchman, had even followed his master to war and served him with great intrepidity and loyalty.

Indeed, when they gave Cyril the _hint_ of how he could oblige them, he read them a homily about ‘knowing their place’. No, there was nothing to be got from Cyril, and Maz Kanata, the housekeeper who had been Prince Benjamin’s Nurse, told them only what she wanted them to know. They were doomed to endless speculation over the matter as their sole amusement; until the Canady affair.

After the prince’s abduction and well before the arrival of the princess and her guests, Alderaan’s butler, Mr. Canady, took possession of a letter which brought about a change in his countenance, and a change in the nature of the household. It happened this way.

The princess paid for the early delivery of the post, she being very much a woman of affairs and constantly receiving of the latest gossip even when sequestered in the heart of the country.

As a consequence, Mr. Canady sat down to his breakfast and found on his plate a missive addressed to him written on thick parchment - of the sort used by lawyers. The wax seal showed it had indeed come from a top firm of London solicitors. Those who had the good fortune to still be seated at the breakfast table found a reason to linger and were rewarded by a sight still spoken of and marvelled over.

Mr. Canady broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of parchment. The servants waited upon him hopefully. Casting his eye over what was written, Mr. Canady then uttered a great oath, causing the females at table to gasp and cry out in horror, for never could Mr. Canady repeat such a word in church, even if under threat of death!

Mr. Canady could now be seen to be labouring under great emotion, picking up his cup and taking a great inhale of tea. He then settled to read his letter again. Hardly had he begun when he jumped up, causing his chair to scrape back over the flagstones with a great noise and fall over with an even greater clatter.

In a tone of voice even more peremptory than usual, indeed conveyed as a snarl, he ordered the first footman to go tell the head groom to turn out the dog cart as he had occasion to be driven to town. He then strode from the room, the servants hall erupting into speculative chatter as he went. The upshot, he left the great house in the dog cart his trunk at his feet, his aim to catch the London Mail coach, never to be heard of again.

They owed their enlightenment to Maz Kanata, who somehow seemed to have all the intelligence needed to assuage their curiosity and for once was keen to share.

Mr. Canady had a cousin close enough to share blood with but remote enough never to have met him. This was fortuitous, for Mr. Canady had therefore never given his cousin cause to quarrel with him. This cousin, related to him on his mother’s side, worked for the East India Company as a clerk and, by dint of innate canniness, had amassed a fortune of some £12,000.

This cousin, domiciled in Madras, India, having found a reason to quarrel with every other member of his family near and far, he being of a choleric disposition, and Mr. Canady never having given him cause to vent spleen as they had never met or even corresponded, designated him his heir upon his death and settled the whole sum upon him.

Mr. Canady was a made man, able to live as a gentleman and retrieve his sister from a servitude similar to his own, and set them both up in a nice little villa in Twickenham, situated by the Thames.

With what envy the servants heard of Mr. Canady’s good fortune, wishing similar good fortune for themselves and beginning to wonder of the existence of any distant rich relative of their own; a few making inquiry of their mother’s when writing home.

The only person having anything like hope in their breast of imminent material advancement was the under butler, hopeful now of inheriting Mr. Canady’s position. Alas, these hopes were soon dashed, for the Princess sent his replacement, a butler of her own choosing, Mr. Dopheld Mitaka.

About the same time, the Princess determined also the necessity for an upper parlourmaid at Alderaan, to have sole charge of the library, and hired one Miss Connix for the job. Hardly had the gossip over Mr. Mitaka’s appointment died down when Miss Connix arrived and proved to be a very superior person indeed; in demeanour and habit more like the dresser to some grand lady - a very grand lady.

Miss Connix wore silk stockings and was possessed of at least two pairs of ankle boots made from the softest Italian leather.

Miss Connix’s niceties also were found to be very nice indeed when they came into the hands of the laundresses - with precise instructions on how to preserve their delicate nature - embellished as they were with lace and ribbons.

As she tottered to the women servants ablutions, on mule slippers so frivolous as to be indecent, her wrapper could be seen to be of bright, patterned Chinese silk, her golden hair brushed until it shone. 

Cook began to mutter ominously about _fallen women_ come amongst them.

She wore no cap, preferring to style her hair into two buns worn on the top of her head, divided by a straight parting down the middle, although this was felt to be an irrelevance as she disturbed no dust in the library to speak of. Rather she pressed into service the timid tweeny maid, who cleaned out the grate and mopped the floor and beat out the rugs, while Miss Connix flicked a feather duster in the most desultory manner imaginable over the leather bound books, plumping up the odd cushion and pronouncing herself well satisfied with her labours.

While the other servants sewed or knitted, or read improving moral tracts, Miss Connix read from lurid romances for the benefit of the impressionable tweeny, whose ginger hair she had now refashioned into a most becoming style.

With the arrival of Princess Leia and Miss Tico, it was anticipated Miss Connix would at last be put in her place. Although Miss Tico’s woman was an unknown quantity, Miss Bliss, Princess Leia’s dresser, was not. Trust Miss Bliss to utter reproof, she knowing her position and place in the downstairs hierarchy as dresser to a princess of the blood.

However, Miss Connix met with no reproof when she greeted Miss Bliss with, “How do you do. I’m Miss Connix, upper parlourmaid to Princess Leia.” No, Miss Bliss actually inclined her head graciously, and Miss Niima, Miss Tico’s woman, when greeted in the same fashion, gave a wide smile and replied, “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Connix. I’m Miss Niima, Miss Tico’s lady’s maid.”

This was said with a droll look which was hard to interpret. Indeed, upon hearing this, Miss Connix giggled and said, “Are you really? I hope you will permit me to assist in the dressing of Miss Tico, particularly with regard to her hair.”

Now this, surely, was a skit against Miss Niima, for that lady had styled her hair simply, in three vertical buns, not _de rigeur_ to be sure, but not _unattractive_ either. Singular, that was the word: she styled her hair in a singular manner, showing off her glossy brunette hair to best advantage.

Miss Niima now proved to be wholly unappreciative of her higher calling, for she merrily invited Miss Connix to, “By all means, Connie. Do your worst.” Needless to say, Miss Connix made the most of it. The world was turned topsy turvy.

Cook it was who described it best. “I have seen a horrid thing,” she prophesied, “servants on horseback while _princes_ walk in the dust.” Cook could not be reconciled to the new world of Miss Connix’s making.

She was soon distracted though, upon learning that Princess Leia had loaned her French chef to her good friend and bosom buddy Lady Holdo, for the duration. She was ascendant, determined to show the superiority of traditional English fayre apropos that insubstantial Continental muck chef insisted on serving.

It followed then that the house party would be small. The princess and her husband, and her husband’s good friend and business partner Mr. Chewbacca. Her son and his friend Mr. Hux, and Miss Tico and Captain Storm of His Majesty’s Royal Navy - who had sworn that it would be over his dead body if his childhood friend went into any house where Prince Benjamin resided without his guardianship.

It seemed then that they would be catering for an odd number, the gentlemen well outnumbering the ladies. They then received the word that Mr. Snoke, the prince’s business advisor, was to be one of the party. The princess allowing it so that her coachman did not have to turn out of an evening in inclement weather to take Mr. Snoke back to his lodging at the inn in the village.

Mr. Snoke was universally disliked.


	4. The Road Ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Ayearandaday, this chapter is going to squeeze your tender heart. Have faith! the last chapter will set all to rights.
> 
> The quotation is that of Claire Clairmont, one time lover of Lord Byron, in response to his lamenting that he was ugly. It seemed to fit here.

He awoke from a deep sleep, possibly the deepest sleep he had ever known, to empty arms. The wife he had made his own the night before no longer pressed against him.

He sat up, trying to collect his sleep addled thoughts. “Rey,” he mumbled, and then more strongly, “Rey.” An ominous silence pressed against his ears in spite of sounds from the street below now being audible.

He threw back the covers, padding into the adjacent sitting room, noticing that the green gown belonging his wife was not where he had draped it across the arms of a bergère chair the evening before. For some reason he imagined his wife curled up on one of the sitting room sofas. She was not.

An ice bucket containing an opened bottle of champagne stood atop the highly polished table. Two coupe glasses stood beside it containing dregs of the sparkling pale liquid they had toasted each other with yesterday evening, but of his wife’s fan, purse and gloves, which she had also laid there, there was no sign.

The first pang of anxiety smote his heart. He widened his focus. The satin evening cloak she had laid over the back of one of the sofas, beside his greatcoat, was also gone - as, clearly, was she. He felt his stomach fall away.

Turning back into the bedroom, he relieved himself and gathered up the items of his own evening dress, pulling them on mechanically, his cravat ruined but he twisted it anyway around his neck, the high points of his shirt collar making a cup for his face, the better to set off his ‘stern beauty’, according to her.

He had repudiated any such pretension to beauty, and she had clasped a hand to his face, quoting, ‘I shall ever remember the gentleness of your manners and the wild originality of your countenance’. He had dropped his head at that, temporarily overcome, enabling her to better card a hand through his hair.

Had she lied? There welled up in him such a feeling, a presentiment that she had, that he felt bile in his mouth. He strode into the sitting room to retrieve his hat and coat and go find her and get the truth. He found it scrawled on a sheet of the hotel letterhead, the paper’s quality evident by its watermark and thickness.

_My Very Dear Sir,_

_Obliged to you as I am for the singular pleasure you bestowed upon me last night, I find, however, that at this present time it is not convenient for me to call you husband._

_With this in mind, I must bid you ‘adieu’ and request that you hold yourself in readiness against such a time as I am currently unable to determine._

_I anticipate your patience and the continuance of your regard and assure you of the most constant nature of mine._

_Yours & etcetera, etcetera,_

It took two readings for him to understand the meaning of what was written - and to decipher her inelegant scrawl. When he did, he crushed the paper in his hand and had the fire still burned red ... but, no, the hearth was as cold and grey as her heart, and instead smoothed it out, indulging himself with a third reading.

This third reading was no more edifying than the first two, but he was better master of his emotions at the end of it, which were volcanic. 

Carefully folding the letter so it could be tucked into his waistcoat pocket, he put on his hat and caught up his cane, and went in search of his errant wife, either to strangle her or keep her chained to his bed for the duration.

His first stop was home, for though he was still dressed in knee breeches at 10a.m. in public, a certain latitude would be allowed him - another young man caught up in an evening’s dissipation and wending his way home to bed. The closer he got to the noon hour, however, he would attract censure and the wrong kind of notice, all distracting him from his intent to find _her_.

When he arrived at the Palpatine mansion bathed and dressed for town in yellow pantaloons, a short double breasted jacket with long tails, and highly polished hessian boots, it was to find the knocker taken off the door and the windows shuttered. 

Regardless, he gave several sharp raps on the door with his silver topped cane, which brought a courteous maidservant who, taking in the excellence of his tailoring, asked him very civilly how she could be of service.

Alas, she was unable to give her mistress’s direction for she did not know it. Miss Palpatine’s butler had charged the servants to put the whole house under dust sheets and then had departed, with Miss Palpatine and Miss Palpatine’s dresser.

“Was this of long-standing arrangement?” he found himself asking.

“Oh, no sir, the orders had come down from Miss Palpatine this morning, and everything done in a hurry.”

He stood there, baulked of his prey, not quite knowing what to do next.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but is this to do with business?”

Yes was a good an answer as any, so he replied, “Yes.”

The maidservant’s face cleared, she so obviously wanted him off the doorstep, all the fools in London gaping in at the sight of servants labouring to and fro under armfuls of dust sheets.

“In that case, sir, perhaps it’s better to inquire of Miss Palpatine’s uncle, Mr. San Tekka. You can usually find him in his chambers at Lincoln’s Inn, he being a barrister and sitting on the King’s Bench besides.”

Her pride in Mr. San Tekka’s achievements were palpable. She had been with the family a long while he guessed. He thanked her, imitating her civil tone and went in search of a hackney, he was too impatient to have his wife back in his power to do with as he would to send a request in writing for an interview.

Lor San Tekka was found to be a tall, spare man with a much lined face which nevertheless contrived to be serene in expression. Ben used his full title to the clerk who inquired of him how he may be served, handing over his card with a flourish. This caused the clerk to bow low, ushering him into an unoccupied waiting room where he declined to be seated, the clerk shuffling off in some haste.

Within a very short while this individual returned with a request to kindly follow him and he would direct him to Mr. San Tekka. Such celerity as this suited Ben’s temper, which was chafing at the delay of being reunited with his wife and teaching her not to pull such tricks as these ever again.

He was ushered into Mr. San Tekka’s office, the clerk once more bowing low as he closed the door on them.

“Prince Benjamin,” Lor San Tekka’s voice was low in tone and gravelly in timbre, nevertheless also calm and measured. Ben could imagine a jury being attentive of every word he uttered.

“Prince Benjamin, welcome to my domain. I knew your grandparents, you know. Aye, and the man you were named for. Heady days they were; your grandfather in his prime and your grandmother the most beautiful woman in England, indeed, in Europe.”

While he spoke, San Tekka was directing to him to a comfortable leather armchair, his manner friendly but his eyes wary in expression, taking his own seat behind a beautiful writing desk which owed much to the French craftsman who had made it.

“Yes, we were all in love with her,” San Tekka’s voice droned comfortably on, “but she had no eyes for any but your grandfather - after she’d forgiven him for turning the guns of his flagship upon her realm and securing it from the French.” He gave a wheezy laugh, which owed much to the cigars he indulged himself with.

“And, of course, tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her off when she refused to leave Nabooian soil.”

The wheezy laugh sounded again, “The black eye she gave him was wonderful to behold, I assure you. He wore it without complaint, however, being by that time so in love with her himself, and grateful she didn’t do worse.”

Fascinating as this was, Ben had quite another mission and interrupted what promised to be an endless stream of reminiscence.

“Forgive me, sir, but I came here to inquire where I may find my wife, your niece, Princess Rey.”

San Tekka’s laughter stopped abruptly, the fond smile wiped entirely from his face.

“Your wife, you say?”

“My wife,” Ben concurred.

San Tekka began to fiddle with items on his desk, moving papers about, muttering under his breath, “His wife, he says. My, my, here’s a pretty pickle.” His hands ceased their fidgeting, being clasped before him on his desk. Before Ben’s eyes he metamorphosed from genial host into cut-throat lawyer.

“There has been some miscommunication, I believe, my good sir. One week ago I sent notice of annulment to your man of business, James Snoke. You are not married to my niece, sir, and, according to the law, you never were.”

There was a pounding in Ben’s ears, a rushing and hissing of blood. Why, he felt his very heart stutter in his chest.

San Tekka, seeing he had poleaxed the large intimidating man sat opposite, hastened to provide reassurance.

“It was nothing personal, my very dear sir, I assure you. My niece fully understands your reasoning for entering into a union with her, and the ambition of her grandfather of having it so. However, Miss Palpatine has inherited a considerable fortune from Sheev Palpatine, why his shares in the East India Company alone ....”

San Tekka stopped short, suddenly aware of the infelicitous nature of his assurances.

“In short, Miss Palpatine submitted to the will of her grandfather while he lived, but now she is free of his rule, well, she chooses to determine her own will with regard to marriage and petitioned for annulment.”

He peered anxiously at the young man, seeing his jaw working and a look of quiet fury manifesting in his eyes. “It is regrettable,” he murmured, “James Snoke ought to have made it his business to inform you as soon as he received the notification.”

“Let me tell you,” the prince was speaking in a low, savage tone, “your niece is ...” He visibly pulled himself up short, it being obvious his recollection of the absent Miss Palpatine was not a charitable one.

He stood abruptly, and then paused before taking his leave.

“On what basis was the marriage annulled?”

San Tekka lowered his eyes, visibly squirming.

“I believe my niece petitioned on the basis of moral endangerment.” San Tekka was back to rearranging the items on his desktop.

“I see,” said Ben shortly, “well, as to that, tell her ...” He stopped himself again from uttering infelicitous observations about Miss Palpatine’s own morals. “No matter, I’ll tell her myself.”

He waited only to sketch a curt bow, and then he was gone, unable to stay a moment longer or else tell San Tekka - tell the whole world - of his niece’s perfidy. He despised himself too, that after all this he still wanted her, yearned for her presence at his side never mind that she had betrayed him.

For he had made both confession and pledge to her, as she lay in his arms bathed with him in the afterglow, that although she was not his first she would be his last. That despite all evidence to the contrary, she was his first love and would be his only love. All this uttered in those sacred moments after two had become one, when lovers exchange the most profound of truths. When they reveal, each one to the other, the secret person of the heart.

His emotions, therefore, when he met Poe Dameron later that evening were molten, but not when he deliberately jostled Dameron and demanded an apology for the insult against himself. When it was refused, calling Dameron out, hoping for swords and settling for pistols. When he stood twenty paces and fired, murder in his heart, a spilt second after Dameron’s bullet whistled by his ear.

Acknowledging, as he squeezed the trigger on his own weapon, that his wife had not run from him to Dameron as he had first supposed, and therefore fired the bullet deep into Dameron’s shoulder and not into his heart as he had first intended.

There had come upon him then such emptiness of spirit as he had never before known, replacing the icy intent which had formerly possessed him, as Dameron crumpled onto the green sward at Barn Elms, as he lowered his pistol, the flintlock and sights though beautifully engraved made of some base metal, dull so as not to reflect the light and mar his aim.

He had walked over to where Dameron lay, two surgeons working to staunch the wound and carry him off to where they may extract the bullet, uttering in a toneless voice, “My honour is satisfied.”

“Is it, is it so?” had yelled the naval gentleman, lurching toward him fists clenched, Hux closing on him to hold him back. “You bloody murderer. I’m glad she ran from you, aye, and if I knew where she was I’d not tell you for a thousand pounds, nay, not for twenty thousand.”

“Hey!” Hux had started to yell now, “enough!” For Hux knew how he suffered, and was suffering himself from much the same cause, though he did not know it at the time, being so wrapped in misery himself to see it.

He’d turned on his heel at that, stalking back to his carriage to await Hux finishing up.

Then had come his mother, ordering him to Alderaan while she settled he would not come to trial for duelling, which was now forbidden by the express order of the king. Being tender but adamant as she gave her orders in a way young Ben had often wished for in his mother, she being busy otherwise with her politicking and her committees and whatever other good cause currently absorbing her interest.

She had cupped his cheeks with her small hands, gazing down at him, he being seated otherwise she never could have, the top of her head not even reaching his shoulder.

“My son,” her voice was indescribably tender, “go to Alderaan, have faith.”

Faith in what he never thought to ask, but once having got to Alderaan, he took out his hunters and though early in the season rode them hard, principally to escape the ghost of _her_ who walked constantly at his side. Until his father and Uncle Chewie arrived and took him with them to sea dressed as a common sailor and worked as one, hands bleeding from the handling of hawsers and rope lanyards and the like.

Uncle Chewie had treated them each evening before dinner with a concoction of his own making, ruffling his hair and treating him to bear hugs which threatened to crush his ribs, filling his empty heart with feeling. He loved his Uncle Chewie, always had, always would. His father too, though Han was less effusive in showing affection.

And then it was back to London, and Snoke and his matchmaking - one Miss Rose Tico the latest candidate for his hand in marriage. He made no demur, although he had no intention of obliging Snoke, having set his heart irrevocably on one woman and she the one woman who didn’t want him. He had never had to petition for a woman’s love before, his wealth and title making him irresistible to the females who he’d formerly invited to his bed. It was a salutary experience - an unwelcome one.

He was to go to Alderaan for Christmas, his mother instructed, and it seemed Miss Tico would be of the party, which otherwise was a family one, with the exception of the naval gentleman, and Hux, and Snoke. He groaned inwardly and tried to get out of it to no avail, instead departing on horseback the day before Christmas Eve, hoping against hope to be turned back by snow four feet deep.

Alas, even the weather conspired against him, it was cold with hard frosts, but nothing his mount, Silencer, couldn’t cope with. He was greeted by his mother’s new butler and told he was the last to arrive. He retreated to the library to sit beside a welcoming fire with a glass of wine. The butler sworn to secrecy regarding his arrival.

As he settled in his wing chair, his spaniels at his feet, he noted on the table at his elbow, where he had placed his wine glass, was a small blue vase, filled with sprigs of skimmia, viburnum, daphne, and the gold and green of euonymus. Sprigs of rosemary had been added too, and Lenten roses.

It was a homely touch, the blooms plucked from Alderaan’s garden, the fragrance of the shrubs released by the warmth of the fire, and a welcome one. He enjoyed his half hour of peace as he sloughed off the chill of the road. Maybe it was a good thing coming to Alderaan after all.


End file.
